Excerpts from
Elena's Trunk
© 1997 by Edessa Ramos
The sea off the coast of Infanta was calm in the early hours before sunrise. The boat plowed the gentle rise and fall of the waves like an arrow skimming a glass surface. Its soft purring joined the cacophony of seagulls circling the distant cliffs of the Sierra Madre where gold and brown monkeys could be seen playing hide-and-seek with the shadows of twisted vines. Far ahead, the first rays of the sun drew a flute of light on the shining backs of dolphins one second before they dissolved into the quiet camouflage of their home.
A woman stood tensely at the stern as though ready for flight. She scanned the distance between the boat and the horizon with her birdlike vision. The child they were looking for would have gone down in his tiny boat just off Lobster Rock, the same spot where she had been scuba diving just two days before. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of diving now without an oxygen tank. Such equipment was a rarity and could only be acquired in the main town a great distance away, a luxury which the rescue effort could not wait for. With her limited experience in skin-diving, she estimated a maximum depth of ten meters for her, no doubt much more for the fishermen who live their lives in the sea.
While preparing mentally for the dive, a part of her dwelt on the spiritual music of this morning. The Pacific Ocean spread in all directions around her, shimmering like a velvet carpet down a church aisle. For her who had so hungered for beauty and a world away from the nerve-wracking life she had led, it held a strange and disquieting effect. For so long had she felt ill-fitting, transitory, a worn-out rug to which she herself had contributed much of the abuse. And all these so artfully hidden beneath her upturned nose, her piercing gaze and biting tongue. Now, held transfixed in this delicate mural of time, in this place by the sierras where past and future melt together as finely as hand-embroidered lace, she felt the cooling of the deep malignant ache that had imprisoned her soul for years.
The owner of the boat cut the engine to its idling mode.
"Elena!" He was calling out a signal to her and she raised one hand in acknowledgment. She heard the five other fishermen call out orders to each other.
Holding on to the bamboo rail, Elena adjusted her mask and snorkel. In a few breathtaking seconds, she noted the half-birthed sun paint a glossy freeway of light in the direction of her plunge. Briefly it reminded her of the inter-state routes of Illinois where she had maneuvered a main portion of her hurt history. Then the flowery depths of the sea absorbed her in a bright burst of bubbles, pulling the curtains at last on the stage of her vanishing.
The shaft of light filtered in through the windowpanes above Tina's head. They were frosted with grime that had thickened and clung to the glass over years of neglect. She could not remember doing any real cleaning in the basement during all the years they had lived in this house. The plan to convert it into a family room never materialized, which led to her frustration and consequently the conversion of the darkened rooms into a storage facility.
The movers were due to arrive next month. The thought of stuffing years of accumulation into the huge trucks and carting them away across town to the suburbs was enough to give one a premature sense of fatigue over another failed project. But, not to be defeated so easily, Tina shook herself out of her stupor and began the task of sifting through the mass of old furniture and boxes of albums and toys that had lain forgotten for years. A strange feeling washed over her as she viewed the clutter of her past. For one second she wondered about this mood, something that does not rhyme at all with her excitement over the new house and, perhaps, a new life.
The trunk lay hidden in a dry corner underneath the staircase. She would have missed it had the cat not jumped in from the top of the stairs and fallen onto the shadowy surface of polished wood. With some effort, Tina pulled the heavy box out towards the center of the room where the light fell brightly.
It was a beautiful trunk, the kind used for traveling in wagons and steam train coaches during the 1900´s. Its lid curved gracefully down to the body in an arch, the edges protected by metal braces. Two pieces of wooden reinforcements followed its contour from top to bottom, broken only by the opening. The old wood shone in rich polish and was of such quality that not a warp appeared on it despite the horrible storage conditions it endured over the years.
Tina opened the lid and could not help a slight gasp as she beheld the interior. The inside of the lid was lined with paper fully hand-painted with pictures of woods and clouds, its decadent style reminiscent of the turn-of-the century art she had seen in museums and art magazines. There was a hand-painted tray made of thin wood that covered the portion where the clothes must have been kept. It had the picture of a young girl in a white gown, with the high waist and puffed sleeves of the period, a flowered hat on her head, and an expression as innocent and at once sultry as the Mona Lisa. In a flash Tina remembered the first time she saw this trunk many years ago when her best friend had moved into the apartment on Irving Park. She held the memory of that day with fondness.
Jobless at the time, Elena was armed with nothing but pride and bravado when she moved out of her sister's apartment and into her own. She had pleaded with the corner store proprietor to vouch for her employment situation and good moral character, should the landlord make a background check on her. Without these references, no landlord in his right mind would have rented her the apartment. The first thing Elena bought to furnish her new dwelling was a dusty trunk from an antiques dealer on Belmont Avenue. Beaming with pride at having acquired it for only $50, she waived off offers from friends who later wanted to buy it at twice the price, sending them away with a cheerful better-than-thou laugh.
Tina gazed at her friend's trunk. She was determined to keep it as long as she lived, for her friend might return one day and this, like a home, meant the world to her. But what to do with it now? Should she bring it to the new house to sit again for years in a basement? Would someone really come back for it, or was that another of those forgotten promises of their youth?